


[citation needed]

by qqueenofhades



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Garcia Flynn Human Disaster, Professors, Rivals to Lovers, So Much History Nerd Talk, Still Can't Flirt, Strikes again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 10:58:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14872479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qqueenofhades/pseuds/qqueenofhades
Summary: Lucy Preston can’t remember the first time she met Garcia Flynn, because the brain blocks out traumatic memories, but they have somehow managed to attend an absurd number of the same conferences for an American modernist and a European medievalist. He seems to make a personal point of turning up at her papers and asking five hundred obnoxious questions afterward. Mostly of the “have you considered this document from two centuries earlier that says something entirely different” variety, while Lucy smiles at him with a No Because I Don’t Study That Period Jackass homicidal glint in her eye.Guess who's now at Stanford?(Rival Professors!Garcy AU. Reasons.)





	[citation needed]

Lucy Preston’s day has started out as well as Monday in the first week of term possibly can, which is to say, not very. She has dodged the hordes of undergraduates wandering vaguely in the direction of class, opened her email to find that the article she submitted to a journal expecting to be rejected in six months has been rejected in two days, and remembered that she still has to go to that godforsaken departmental meeting at three o’clock this afternoon. This is when they are going to divvy up all the extra busywork for the quarter that nobody wants to take on, so if you were smart, you’d just say your class ran late, you got distracted with research, or all your electronic devices died and you never got the reminder email. Most unfortunately, Lucy is a conscientious person who would feel bad if she did that, and the next round of tenure recommendations is coming up soon. Ergo, you brownnose. Like a champ.

Her first class isn’t until tomorrow, so she decides if she wants to look at the feedback the journal editors sent on her article (answer: probably not), googles some places to re-submit it, and fights the ever-present conviction that she is a hack and a fraud who is shortly going to be exposed for all the world to see. She eats lunch in her office, edits the 300 typos in the syllabus that she apparently missed before posting it online, and then around two-thirty, sighs deeply and gathers up her bag and folders. Might as well head down to the conference room and stake a spot. Then she can hide by the coffeemaker until three.

Lucy strides down the hall, through the intermittent pools of September sunlight, and reaches the room, then pushes the door absently open. Maybe enough of the others will have skived off that they’ll have to reschedule, which is a conflicting thing to hope for, but it’s always better to put off doing an unpleasant thing until the future, rather than have to face it now. Or maybe they can just –

“Hello, Lucy.”

She almost has a heart attack, papers flying out of her arms, as she bangs her hip on the doorknob and whirls around – she didn’t think anyone else was here this early yet, and she knows that voice, but has absolutely no idea why it’s _here._ She has just enough time to think that this has to be a terrible mistake. Then she sees who is sitting by the virtual whiteboard and playing with the clicker, sending it rattling through the Good Organizational Development slides that the last occupants of the room forgot to close out of, and –

“What,” Lucy says, just managing to sound cordial, “are you doing here?”

Garcia Flynn raises an eyebrow at her in the manner of an individual (or in this case, smug asshole) who has been sitting here for twenty minutes hoping to do just that. “Don’t tell me you don’t read your emails, Professor Preston?”

Lucy opens and shuts her mouth. There were, to be exact, 285 emails in her inbox this morning, some of which she possibly should have been more conscientious about checking over summer vacation, but she skimmed the important-looking ones and deleted the rest. She feels like she would have had a Batsignal to notice anything to do with – well, with _him,_ but apparently not. Not to be too dramatic about it, but this man is her nemesis. She can’t remember the first time they met, because the brain blocks out traumatic memories, but they have somehow managed to attend an absurd number of the same conferences for an American modernist and a European medievalist, and he seems to make a personal point of turning up at her papers and asking five hundred obnoxious questions afterward. Mostly of the “have you considered this document from two centuries earlier that says something entirely different” variety, while Lucy smiles at him with a No Because I Don’t Study That Period Jackass homicidal glint in her eye. She tried to be receptive to constructive criticism and ask him what document he meant once, so he pointed her to some bogglingly obscure item from 1482, held in the special collections of the Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München in Germany. It is written in Old Church Slavonic. There is no translation available. He apparently knows it by heart.

“I didn’t…” Lucy struggles for a fixed smile. “I mean, what exactly are you doing at Stanford, Dr. Flynn?”

“I’ve taken up a visiting professorship for the year.” He raises the other eyebrow. “I’ve been at Royal Holloway in London, but they… encouraged me to take the opportunity. Get more experience with the American system. I have to say, I’m looking forward to it. Aren’t you?”

Lucy wants to say that she is very well aware he was at Royal Holloway, because his byline was burned into her brain after he reviewed her first book on early colonial America and the run-up to revolution. The ultimate academic diss is to say that a book isn’t entirely bad, it can be used as a paperweight or to keep the door open, and Flynn’s final verdict was that “it can certainly aspire to paperweight status, though this too may be a reach.” Scathing as it generally was, he did say that she had done her research and was an engaging writer – just that, apparently, he disagreed with all her premises, her analysis was uneven, her conclusion was wrong, and it would have been much improved by further and extensive consultation with more primary documents from basically everywhere. Lucy published “A Reply To Garcia Flynn” in the same journal six months later, which is the academic equivalent of You Suck And Should Go To Hell, and his review was the outlier, as the book was otherwise mostly well-received (though to her vast aggravation, she re-read it last year and discovered that she was starting to agree with some of his main points). Then she made a point of going all the way to the International Medieval Congress at the University of Leeds that summer, got the department to fund it as expanding her professional competencies, and attended all his papers and asked _him_ a bunch of pointed questions. Most of which he answered, because he’s just obnoxiously smart, but still.

“So you’re… here.” This is stating the obvious, but Lucy is still hoping she might blink hard a few times and wake up from what is apparently a terrible daydream. “For the year.”

“Yes. I will be teaching two undergraduate classes, supervising some final-year independent study projects, and otherwise participating in the academic life of Stanford University.” Flynn smirks at her. “I may also serve as an internal examiner on a PhD that’s being submitted in December. So, it seems we will be co-workers, huh?”

“Right,” Lucy mutters, sitting down at the very far end of the table. “Coworkers.”

(Oh God, this is the worst Monday – or possibly just _day_ – of her life.)

Things do not improve in the slightest over the next three weeks. Lucy has to walk into the history department every morning, haggard and clutching her coffee, to see him larking around in a snappy suit (why does he always wear a suit? It’s California, for God’s sake. Business casual is fine) and running the Spanish Inquisition on various colleagues. Lucy’s friend Eleanor Renshaw, the medieval historian in the department, is absolutely thrilled to have a fellow nerd at hand, though even she admits to Lucy that Flynn is the exact kind of medievalist that everyone hates. “I asked him the other day about some citation from the _Patrologia Latina,_ and he said it was in volume 209, so I went to Google Books it since it’s online. He walked past my chair and gave me a look like he discovered me pushing old ladies into traffic. I told him we don’t own whatever 220 fricking hardcover volumes of the PatLat anyway, and he was all, ‘well, you really should consult Pope Innocent’s original letters’. Does he think I’m going to get on a plane to the god damn Vatican and do that tomorrow?”

“Probably.” Lucy rubs her eyes. “You can get around a lot more easily in Europe. I know he’s smart, Eleanor, but he’s the _worst.”_

“He did get reminded by the dean yesterday that student interaction is an important part of the job,” Eleanor says. “Apparently he made a freshman cry after MEDV102.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Lucy reaches for her coffee cup and takes a deep swig, wondering if she needs to start adding Jack Daniels to it as a matter of principle. “Another pretentious, arrogant, know-it-all male academic who needs to throw his weight around to feel successful? How original.”

“See, he’s not exactly like that. It just that he knows so much stuff that he forgets that not everyone does, and is confused and exasperated when he remembers he has to slow down and explain it. Some of us are great researchers, some of us are great teachers, not everyone is both. He does better with one-to-one tutoring, which he probably got to do more of in the UK. Now he’s in cattle-car lecture halls, and it’s just throwing the information out there in generic chunks, and he gets frustrated.” Eleanor shrugs. “Seems that way, at least.”

Interesting as this insight into Flynn’s pedagogical methods may be, Lucy still does not feel like cutting him any slack. Especially when she finishes her class that afternoon, heads to the café for some free time, and promptly runs into him in the sandwich line. He’s ditched the tie, but still has the jacket and smart collared shirt, and despite herself, Lucy is aware that a few female professors from other departments have been coming over and asking semi-casually “so what’s his deal, anyway?” By which they mean, is he single? A very tall, ruggedly handsome, dark-haired European super-genius is, obviously, not about to be kicked out of bed for eating crackers, but Lucy wonders if sustained exposure to his total lack of social skills would swiftly disabuse them of this notion. She doesn’t actually know if Flynn is single. She sure as hell isn’t going to ask.

“Lucy.” He gives her that almost-charming, crooked, dimpled grin. (Okay, on anyone else it would be charming, but definitely not on him.) “Having a busy day?”

The way he says these things always makes Lucy wary that there’s some major commitment she forgot, and he’s waiting to see if she’s going to clap a hand to her forehead and dash off in a panic. “Ordinary day,” she says coolly. “Plenty of stuff. I’m sure you have a lot to be getting on with too.”

“I’m free for the rest of the afternoon.” Flynn shrugs. “Haven’t had a campus tour yet?”

“I’m sure there are plenty of student guides who can help you with that.” Lucy gives him a demure, close-mouthed smile. “Or go along to the admission office and – ”

“Maybe,” Flynn says. “Or you could.”

“I’m – ” Jolted out of her usual sleek professional courtesy, Lucy chokes. “I’m sorry, are you actually suggesting that I’d voluntarily want to spend more time with you?”

The bastard actually has the gall to look wounded. “What do you mean? We’ve always enjoyed spending time together before.”

Lucy reaches the cashier at that point and takes out her debit card to pay for her sandwich and cookie, which is a good thing since it gives her a moment to gather her thoughts. After Flynn has likewise paid for his snack, and still more annoyingly trails after her as she starts outside to the patio seating, she says, “What are _you_ talking about? We haven’t exactly – that is, I don’t think I’d really say _enjoyed.”_

Flynn blinks. He still has a kicked-puppy look on his face that almost seems genuine, though he hastily replaces it with his usual expression. “I just meant all our meetings at those conferences,” he says. “I always liked the questions you asked me.”

Lucy realizes that her mouth is still open, so she hastily fills it with a bite of sandwich. It seems a little ungracious to tell him that she’s basically developed a Pavlovian reflex to the sight of him in the audience, and several times deliberately pretended she did not see his hand up when asking if there were more questions. It occurs to her to wonder if he’s thought that all this has been friendly academic rivalry and he might have even expected for her to be happy about him taking a post here, in which case he has. . . drastically misread the situation. He’s never been outright _mean_ to her. Just persistent and obnoxious and outspoken. And, apparently, totally unaware of how normal humans make friends.

“I. . .” Lucy still doesn’t know what to say, so she stops. At last she manages a shrug of her own. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’ve gotten something out of it.”

Flynn once again looks rather stung. Serves him right, frankly. Finally he says, somewhat uncertainly, “I do admire your work, you know.”

“Really?” That might be the nicest thing he has ever said to her, even if she’s still struggling to work out how it concords with literally any of his previous actions. However, there is a seed of suspicion in her mind that Flynn is the kind of person who shows his interest by turning up and badgering you with endless questions in the name of making you a better scholar – real purist for the Socratic method, apparently. “You raked me over the coals in that _Journal of Early American History_ review!”

Flynn’s mouth twitches as if he’s trying not to smile. “That was five years ago, Lucy. And the book _did_ need more work.”

“Most of the other reviewers didn’t seem to think so.”

Flynn lifts a shoulder in a brief well-they’re-idiots shrug, but he still seems hung up on the realization that she has been nursing a burning resentment for him this entire time. “I wasn’t going to spend so much time going to just _anyone’s_ papers,” he says at last. “And you should read my most recent book review if you want to see how I treat people I don’t like.”

Lucy raises an eyebrow back at him. “Was that the one on the Reston book? Yeah, History Twitter made you into a meme.”

“History Twitter?”

“Right, I forgot. Real intellectuals don’t use Twitter, because the only way to authentically experience history is to read the actual document by period-appropriate candlelight?”

Caught by surprise, Flynn stares at her. Then he actually laughs, which transforms his entire face and momentarily makes Lucy’s insides do an unwelcome squiggle. “No, no,” he says, still chuckling. “It’s not that. In fact, I was going to go edit some more Wikipedia pages, once we were done here. Whoever writes their medieval history articles does a terrible job.”

“Wikipedia?” This is a fascinating conversation for any number of reasons. “Do you mean English Wikipedia, or Middle High German Wikipedia?”

Flynn grins again, as if he is genuinely enjoying her roasting him. “The former,” he says, though God knows he is probably the founder and sole contributor to the latter. “I mean, half my students are going to be cribbing from it anyway. It’s better  I know what they’re looking at, right?”

Lucy has to admit that this is a fair point, and can make her see that beneath the gruffness and the snark and general dickishness (hey, sometimes you gotta call a spade a spade), he might be, as Eleanor said, actually a decent teacher. He cares a lot, he certainly knows a lot, and can be too intense at conveying this to everyone and making them love it the way he does. It almost touches her (almost), and after a pause, she finishes off her cookie and stands up. “I do have to go. But, uh. I’ll see you around.”

“See you around.” He grins at her again. “Lucy.”

(Well. That was very weird.)

The next morning when she’s between emails, Lucy opens his faculty page, just out of an idle curiosity and because she’ll probably feel twice as inadequate when she’s done. He’s Croatian by birth, which she recalls hearing somewhere; he did his bachelor’s and master’s at the University of Dubrovnik, and his PhD at the University of Geneva in Switzerland. Then got a Marie Curie Action, which is some super-prestigious European research award, and did his fellowship at Oxford, taught at a few places around the UK and France before getting the Royal Holloway job. Of course, his “Publications and Papers” section is like two pages long, and the “Awards” section makes you want to kill him. Perfect for inducing total existential crises in untenured academics convinced they’ll be sleeping under a bridge this time next year, in other words. Asshole.

Lucy sighs deeply, supposes she asked for it, and closes out of the window. They have another of the dreaded departmental meetings today, where they have to essentially draw straws to get assigned to some subcommittee that nobody wants to do (something something student education something something undergraduate curriculum review) and when she walks in, the first thing she notices is that as usual, Flynn has beaten her there. The second thing is that he’s wearing a knit black turtleneck and jeans, instead of his usual suit. “What?” she says. “Did Brooks Brothers burn down?”

Flynn snorts. “Just trying to fit in with my new colleagues. Why do Californians wear jeans everywhere?”

“It’s just our thing. Like not dealing with rain or temperatures below fifty degrees.”

“Fifty degrees _Fahrenheit,”_ Flynn says, in eye-rollingly obvious determination to be a troll. “The rest of the world would say ten degrees Celsius.”

Lucy stares at him evilly, then opens her notebook and pretends he isn’t there as the rest of the department files in. They have the usual procedural BS to go through, and she’s almost tuning out, but then hears her name somewhere, and jerks back to attention. “Sorry?”

The dean gives her a slightly recriminating look. “I was just saying, Lucy, I thought you might be willing to take on the curriculum subcommittee. Dr.  Flynn also volunteered, we just need one more person, so – ”

“What?” Lucy stares accusingly at Flynn. Can she refuse? She can’t refuse, can she? The dean just asked her to do this in front of the entire department, she does have a lighter class load than some of them, and since she’s lower on the totem pole, she picks up the grunt work. “I – the curriculum subcommittee? With _him?”_

“Please,” Flynn says, with graceful, understated sarcasm. “Call me Garcia. Since we’re on informal first-name terms around here, remember?”

Lucy stares authentic medieval daggers through his head and then turns to the dean. “I’m just not sure if you want junior faculty on the oversight committee. I mean, wouldn’t someone more senior be better able to advise on it?”

“Honestly, we really want a fresher perspective on it, and you know how some of the department dinosaurs can get. That’s why we’re putting Garcia on it, since he’s an outside observer with experience in other institutions, and we think you have valuable ideas, Lucy.” The dean closes her planner. “Any other questions?”

Shit. She has valuable ideas and the history department wants her input, which is certainly a good thing in and of itself, but – _seriously?_ She and Flynn get stuck together on the Important For The Education of The Youth job that nobody really wants, which means they’re going to have to have conversations on how to, presumably, educate the youth. He’s already looking like this is the best day of his life. It probably is. _Ugh._

Lucy manages to put him off for a few days until she reminds herself that doing shitty things that will drive you insane is a major part of academia and she bit this bullet a while ago. So she sends him a teeth-achingly polite email about reviewing the reports and action plans from last year, and he turns up at her office at 11am on the dot, as agreed. He has probably spent the night reading the binders. He is an exasperatingly thorough person.

Flynn actually keeps the snark to a minimum as they work, which has to be a first. He has also has an excellent eye and a low tolerance for bullshit, which helps cut through the fat the first time around, and Lucy wonders just how much of a terror he is with the red pen. Judging from her experience, probably a lot. In fact, they get the first few meetings done with downright efficiently, which probably neither of them were expecting, though they still bicker. It’s annoying that when they’re working together, they’re actually a pretty decent team. When you discover yourself laughing at the same niche nerd jokes, and getting each other’s obscure references, that’s probably a good sign. He admits that Royal Holloway encouraged him to take this job at least in part because they didn’t want him to make any more candidates cry after their interview panels, and seems only somewhat apologetic for this. He believes in doing things right.

Lucy actually emerges from their latest meeting with only a 5% desire to strangle him, as compared to her usual 95%, and is half-smiling to herself as she makes her way to the kitchen. As she’s rinsing out her coffee mug, Eleanor sidles up next to her. “ _Sooooo_ , how are things going with you two?”

“We’re working on it like mature adults, it’s been fine. Really – ” Lucy stops and looks at her. “Wait, what exactly did that tone mean?”

“What? Nothing.”

“Eleanor.”

“Look, you _were_ bitching to me about him at the start of term, and the two of you have had your weird Hamilton-and-Burr thing going on for however long. Maybe we – I mean _I_ – am just curious how that all, you know, shakes out.”

 _“We’re_ curious?” Lucy puts down the coffee cup. “How many people are we talking about here?”

Eleanor coughs. “Just a couple of people from the department who may, uh, may have put some wagers in on how this was going to turn out.”

“What exactly are you betting on here?”

“Well, I don’t want to prejudice the results, but. . .” Eleanor turns away with an affectedly casual air. “The pool is whether you kill each other or make out first.”

“I _beg_ your – ” Lucy splutters. “What do _you_ have in this? Exactly?”

“I can’t tell you, can I?”

“I don’t – I don’t want to make _out_ with him, Eleanor!”

“Really? Because that’s not the vibe I’m getting off you two.”

“Oh? And what vibe _are_ you getting?”

“The. . .” Eleanor pauses, then gives a don’t-sue-the-messenger shrug. “The opposite of the killing one, since you asked.”

Lucy is still spluttering when Flynn, with diabolically nuisance timing, appears around the corner, carrying an armload of photocopied handouts. He glances at her as if in concern she might be choking, then at Eleanor, who is studiously staring at the wall and humming. Flynn mutters something under his breath and keeps on stepping, and when he’s gone, Eleanor says, “You know it’s not really a secret that he’s into you, right?”

“He is not _into_ me.” Lucy’s cheeks are the same color as the fire extinguisher. “He likes annoying me, yes, but he’s – look, if he was, and I am not saying he is, I don’t even like him. You know I don’t like him. Remember when he told me to go find that 1482 document or whatever, that was two hundred years before the paper I was working on? Who _does_ that?”

“You mean the document written in one of the weird-ass obscure languages he just happens to read, and doesn’t have an English translation?” Eleanor belatedly starts making her own coffee. “I will bet you twenty bucks he was hoping you’d ask him to do it for you.”

Lucy’s mouth is still open, so she closes it. She isn’t sure how she can just stroll back into her office next week for their usual meeting, let alone see Flynn around the university, without immediately wanting to run and hide behind a potted plant. “Are you – is he trying to _flirt?”_

“I think the operative word there is _trying,”_ Eleanor remarks, stirring in powdered creamer. “Actually, that’s too generous, he’s failing. Horrendously. But there you have it. Honestly, what’s-her-face from the English department, the one that’s been asking me if he’s got a girlfriend back in Europe, walked in the other day, saw you two at the sink, and then just sighed and walked out. So yeah. I’d say all that is yours if you want it.”

“I. . .” Lucy is still too aghast over this unbelievable revelation to process it. “I do not like him, Eleanor!”

“Fine. Fine.” Eleanor raises her hands. “But just so you know, I’m not changing what I have in the pool.”

Lucy mutters under her breath and storms out, perhaps slightly too emphatically. She doesn’t know what’s more irritating, that Eleanor is totally mistaken, or that she isn’t. Yes, all right, there is possibly some element of Flynn showing interest in her, like a cat considerately bringing a dead mouse to its owner so this feeble human doesn’t starve. And yes, well, Lucy has eyes and that is six-foot-four of A Lot. But he – but Garcia _Flynn,_ who said her first book, her _baby,_ was maybe good enough to work hard and be a paperweight one day –

(She is going to take a while to get over this.)

The quarter goes on and it’s the last day before Thanksgiving break. Lucy is probably just going to sit at home and maybe make something out of a box, since the holidays are weird when you aren’t on speaking terms with your family. Amy is the only one she’s close to, and Amy moved to New Zealand on a new work experience seven months ago for similar reasons. The time difference between Palo Alto and Wellington is a bitch to work out, though they might squeeze in a Skype. It unwillingly occurs to her to wonder what Flynn is doing. He’s probably renting a short-term apartment for the duration of his visiting professorship, nothing terribly special, and she hasn’t gotten the sense that he has a bustling social schedule outside of work. And well, they have spent some time together on the curriculum project, it’s only courteous to ask, which she does as they’re packing up their papers after the meeting. “So, uh, are you doing anything for Thanksgiving?”

“I thought I’d make a pumpkin pie,” Flynn says. “Maybe a few other things, if I can dig up some of my mother’s recipes.”

“Your mother’s recipes?” Lucy is surprised. “Croatian?”

“No, my mother was American. From Texas, actually. Houston. She would cook Thanksgiving for me sometimes growing up.” Flynn’s face briefly lightens with fond remembrance. “It’s been a long time since I – well, since I did any of that.  Maybe now that I’m in the States, I’ll give it a try. You?”

“I’m a terrible cook,” Lucy admits. “I’ll make some potato flakes and instant stuffing, maybe boil some green beans, but that’s as far as I’ll get it.”

Flynn makes a scathing noise in his throat. “What? No. No, no. You can come over, if you want. I’ll make an actual dinner.” He stops, as if conscious that he might have actually expressed interest like a normal person, and isn’t sure what to do about it. “I mean, that is. If you want to.”

“I. . .” Lucy hesitates. “I don’t want to be any imposition, I’d – ”

“I’d enjoy the company.” Flynn has bent over, picking up his briefcase, so she can’t quite see his face, but his voice is sincere. “Really.”

She doesn’t have anything better to do, and she _does_ want to go (maybe she should make sure Eleanor never hears about this, she’ll never hear the end of it). So Lucy shyly accepts, Flynn gives her his address, and tells she’s welcome to come over whenever she likes tomorrow morning, he won’t be doing much except cooking. Says goodbye to her as usual, pulls on his obnoxiously attractive peacoat, and strides out.

(She still doesn’t like him, right?)

(Does she like him?)

(Shit.)

Lucy arrives at Flynn’s modest townhouse around 1pm on Thanksgiving day, awkwardly holding a bottle of wine as her contribution to the meal, and he opens the door in a striped apron and lets her in. The steam wafting out of the kitchen already smells heavenly, and he uncorks the wine, pours them both a glass, and insists that he’s got it under control when Lucy asks if she can help with the cooking. They start to chat. He’s easy to talk to – surprisingly easy. And funny. When he’s gentler with that sass, less determined to use it like a blowtorch, he keeps making her giggle. It feels good.

( _Flynn?!?!)_

“How long has it been?” Lucy asks, watching him stir the gravy, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. “Since you did this?”

“I suppose. . .” Flynn hesitates, long enough to make her sense that the answer is more complicated than he wants to let on. Finally he says, as casually as possible, “Since Lorena and Iris died.”

“I. . .” Lucy swallows. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Flynn reaches for the whisk. “It was – a while ago.”

“Your wife?” It’s a guess, but the way his head moves up and down once tells her that it’s an accurate one. “And your – your daughter?”

“Yes. She was five. It was a car accident, as they were driving to Geneva to be there for my PhD graduation.” Flynn stops, rubbing the back of his hand across his face, clears his throat rather roughly, then goes on. “It was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, and it. . . well. For a while, I felt terribly guilty. I considered quitting. They wouldn’t have been there if not for me, I. . . I thought it was my fault. But Lorena had always supported me, she always wanted me to do it, so I picked myself back up and threw myself into it and got the Marie Curie a year later. Ever since, I’ve wanted to be the best. For them.”

“You – you are.” It comes out of Lucy before she can quite hold it back. “You’re really amazing, as a historian. Just – the work you do, the stuff you’ve published on, the languages you can read, the things you think about, all of that. I guess I really do feel inadequate.”

“You shouldn’t,” Flynn says decisively. “You’re very – _very_ impressive. And I’m sorry that I didn’t go about telling you that in the right way. In school, I always had teachers who pushed me, who always asked how I could do better than better, and it – well, it got me where I am, yes. But it’s not the way to really build someone, to make them confident in learning and in themselves. I just saw so much of what you could be, and I wanted to help you get there. I still do.” He pauses, almost shy. “I think – I hope – you could be better than me one day.”

Lucy tries to answer, and finds that she is momentarily rather choked. He looks at her again, and there is something both soft as a whisper and sparking like a fire, and given the way they both quickly cough and look away, they definitely damn well felt it. He might have been going to ask about a significant other, but her presence here alone on Thanksgiving seems to answer that. Then he says, “You can give the stuffing a poke, if you want.”

Lucy gets up and jabs a fork into the stuffing, which is perfect, because of course it is. She sets the table for two as Flynn finishes his ministrations to the turkey, wonders if this is definitely a date, and if she minds if it is. He sets up everything on the kitchen counter, they serve themselves, and then set down. He says a brief few words of grace, and they start to eat.

Everything is delicious, because of course it is, and Lucy finds herself opening up to him in turn. About her mother, and how difficult that’s been trying to separate herself, and the man she knew as her father not being her dad, and finding her biological father and him being just creepy, and her sister moving away, and the pressure she constantly feels under. He is a good listener, takes it in without commenting or judging, just nods supportively and makes small noises of acknowledgment. She tells him more than she’s told pretty much anyone.

They take a long time over dinner, have seconds, then get up and start doing the dishes together while they’re waiting to make room for dessert. Flynn has his iPod set up for mood music, and when Bing Crosby’s “I Wished On The Moon” comes on, he briefly tenses, some flash of memory crossing his face. Then he smiles a little, and holds out his hand.

Not even sure what he’s intending to do with it, Lucy takes it. They waltz slowly and almost dreamily across the small kitchen, as he spins her and then catches her around, and their faces are very close, and her throat is rather dry. His eyelashes are long and dark, and he practically bats them at her, but in an I’m A Dumb Puppy way rather than an attempted seduction (she’s honestly not sure he could pull it off if he tried – he’s plenty capable of being suave and cool and smooth as an act, but when he actually seems to like someone, he melts into a puddle of goo). She tilts her head back, just a little. Or a lot. There is, after all, a significant height difference between them, and she has to strain to so much as rest her chin on his shoulder.

When the song finishes, Flynn still stands there for a moment longer, then gently starts to let go of her. Lucy catches his hands, surprising them both, and they look at each other until he reaches up to stroke her hair out of her face from where it’s tumbled in her eyes. “You, ah,” he starts, then clears his throat. “You – I – I hope you didn’t – ”

“Thank you,” Lucy says. “For all of it. It’s just been – really nice.”

(They keep looking at each other. Is he going to – ?)

(No, he is still remaining where he is, like a gentleman, and not going to presume anything more after the dance, so. . . apparently this is up to her. If she does do this, and she has a bad feeling she is going to, Eleanor owes her half the pot. It’s only fair.)

Lucy steps forward. Grips Flynn’s rib-knit grey turtleneck in both hands (she still hasn’t found out what he has against normal clothes, unless he has to look appropriately European at all times) and pulls him down to her level. Sounding surprised, he starts, “Lucy – ?”

Of course he has no idea how normal people actually flirt, so it’s time for one of them to show the other who is, in fact, the better teacher here. And indeed, maybe he cannot flirt. He can, however, kiss like hell, and it makes Lucy forget everything else she was ever planning to say or do except for this. He lifts her up, wraps his arms around her waist, and they turn on the spot, her fingers in his hair, their mouths opening, musing gently. Then they slowly pull apart, Flynn sets her down, and looks as if he’s been concussed.

They don’t talk about it for the rest of dinner, eat their dessert sitting on the couch, and discover that the silence has become oddly and delightfully comfortable. Lucy edges closer, and then a little closer again, and finally he drapes his arm around her and pulls her into him, snuggling her into his side. Finally she murmurs into his shoulder, “Do you want me to go?”

“Now that you ask.” He attempts a casual shrug. As usual when it comes to Garcia Flynn and women, he fails. “Not particularly.”

“Mmm?” Lucy is feeling more tender toward him than she ever has in her life, but she can’t resist trolling him one last time. “I’m sorry, did you say you like me?”

Flynn gets an oh-god-is-this-a-trap look on his face. Finally he ventures, “Yes?”

“Where exactly did you find that in the text, Dr. Flynn?” Lucy trails a finger down his cheek to his chin, then turns it toward hers. “Citation needed?”

Flynn looks at her as if she’s the greatest thing he has ever seen in his life. He reaches out and pulls her against him with both arms, they kiss again much more vehemently, and almost fall off the couch. To say the least, Lucy does not leave that night.

(Eleanor wins the office pot the next day. She is welcome.)


End file.
